


All Blood and Strawberries

by YogurtHoops



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Gen, I'll tag as the story develops, Isolation, Kamukura Izuru Has Feelings, brainwashing doesn't work as well as you'd expect, teenager doesn't get the emotional support needed for healthy development
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-02 23:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21169331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtHoops/pseuds/YogurtHoops
Summary: The researchers really need to make up their minds at whether he's a dangerous failed test subject or a good-for-nothing teenager.Because, honestly? He's not too sure himself._____________The surgery goes wrong, but they might as well get something out of it, right?





	1. Ultimate Artist

**Author's Note:**

> I'm honestly posting this here just to keep it organized, but I did originally plan for this to be my first multi-chapter fic (and first fic on AO3 in general) when I wrote the concept.
> 
> Apologies in advance for my inaccuracies with the canon. I never watched the anime but my love for Hinata outweighs my ability to give a damn. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The first red flag, in hindsight, was the fact that they realized the kid was awake at all.

“We have consciousness,” someone says, jaw rigid behind his surgical mask. “Appearance is aligned with accelerated hair growth aspect of the operation.”

He can only dumbfoundedly agree with that statement, taking a good minute to eye the kid’s locks with awe. The hair used to be brown, for crying out loud. “The subject will undergo the basic post-op tests before being released to…” He hesitates. “Its room. Good work, everybody.” That last bit was mostly for everyone else’s benefit. A bookend on the most stressful surgery any of them will ever do, without question.

He lets his gaze shift back down to the kid, and with a start he realizes it’s eyes are locked on him. 

_ Well _ , he thinks, very aware of their audience.  _ The steering committee would probably like an example… _

“What’s your name?” He asks.

For all intents and purposes,  _ Kamukura Izuru _ should be functional enough to answer questions. The project and performance almost memorized, going through each individual talent as it was implanted. The surgeon basically knows Izuru’s brain more than he does his own. 

“Hm?” Kamukura grunts, making a move to sit up before blanching. The next words come out cracked. “My name?”

That’s… a bit concerning. He shares a worried glance with another doctor. “Yes.”

“My name…” 

________

  
  


Izuru wakes up at six o’clock, every morning. On the dot, no exceptions.

_ Infuriatingly, _ he thinks, raising a hand to cover his eyes.  _ My programming is a bitch. _

Of course, he learned his lesson on sleeping in the first week (because, really? Cattle prods? Was he a research project or a beast? A fucked up combination of both, is the answer to that). At this point it was all just part of the schedule, so he deals. Maybe, if he’s feeling particularly annoyed, he tries to see how long he can lay down inert until one of his teachers inevitably sounds over the loudspeaker. 

Besides, he’s pretty sure if they wanted an Ultimate Hope with no chance of rebellion, the professor would have tried a  _ little _ harder with the lobotomy. He’s made  _ that _ thought pretty clear. Besides, maybe if they experienced raising a normal kid with a normal level of intellect, they would think twice about brain experimentation.

Not that he’s a normal kid anyways. What kind of teenager has no memories except a lingering feeling of frustration but knows how to dismantle a fighter jet?

“ _ Kamukura Izuru _ ,” a tired voice sounds over the speaker. Looks like he spent too long sulking. He gets up, stretching as the teacher continues. “ _ After you eat, we have some tests for you. _ ”

That gets his attention. “Talent related?” They have avoided testing for the past few days, mostly because of an incident that occurred during the last examination which totally was not his fault. 

“ _ Yes. Ultimate artist. _ ”

Ah, low risk. No mechanical pieces that can blow up, depending on the medium they’ll be wanting him try. “Nice.” If anything, drawing is cathartic, right? He has just enough information from the Ultimate Therapist and Ultimate psychologist implanted in his brain to confirm it. “What will I be doing?”

“ _ You will be informed at the start of the test _ ,” Is all he gets before the speaker clicks off. 

_ Right, _ Izuru thinks with an excessive lack of humor.  _ Lab rat _ .

_o0o_

His morning ritual passes in a blur, Izuru’s mind going  _ way _ too fast than what is acceptable for what seems to be normal getting-ready activities. He wishes he could just shut it off– gods know that he could do without the pitiful anger of knowing his meal nutrients were just left of perfect. 

_ Ignorance is bliss _ , he thinks, spooning oatmeal into his mouth.

It isn’t necessarily a bad existence, he can admit. He should be grateful, being in a controlled environment where his teachers are a known evil versus the unpredictableness outside. It would be a logical train of thought he would stick with if Izuru wasn’t convinced that was part of his programming as well. A compliant weapon is a useful weapon, after all. 

Sometimes he wonders if it was unfortunate, that his humanity stuck with him after the surgery. The teachers wouldn’t know how to manipulate an unfeeling beast. A teenager, though? Easy. Izuru would know how to do that  _ without _ the Ultimate debate champion spelling out the guidelines in his head.

He wills the depressing thoughts away as he combs through his hair, mind fading into a dull buzz. He twists it into a ponytail though muscle memory, although he does remember needing to tap into the Ultimate hairstylist talent when he first started. He was so pathetic, back then.

He’s pathetic  _ now _ , he laments, looking at the canvas in front of him. 

“What do you want me to paint, exactly?” He asks, looking at his teacher. A woman, today. Above middle aged, poor lung health due to smoke inhalation at a young age, if her posture and breathing tempo has anything to say about it.  _ Focus, Izuru _ . 

The woman smiles, clipboard in hand. “Anything you want.”

_ Ultimate test, my ass _ , he thinks with a frown. “I haven’t seen anything outside my room and the testing rooms, before,” he reminds her. “And nothing in them is very exciting.”

The woman’s smile thins the smallest amount. “Problem solve, then.”

He’s about to ask what the hell that is supposed to mean when he gets the gist. He turns to the canvas again, picking up the palate to his side. “Right.” It’s supposed to be an emotional outlet, he guesses. Or some weird way to glean his emotional state without asking outright.

They’re giving him mixed messages here. First they want a machine that complies to their every whim, and now they want him to improvise?

They really should have been more specific, if they knew what was good for them. He picks up the brush, and lets his thoughts carry him away.

_o0o_

So, here’s the thing: Using talents requires a bit of intellectual distance. 

Izuru isn’t really sure how to describe it, ironically– with all his talent, shouldn’t he know the methods to actually use them? He chalks it up to a flaw on the operating table, or something to that degree. Either way, it’s something he has to deal with.

Usually the tests that the teachers set up have outlines, specific instructions for what exactly he is supposed to carry out, the bare minimum of details and an unspoken rule of  _ don’t ask questions.  _ Izuru just takes a look at the order, picks up a tool, and zones the fuck out. He comes back when the task is completed, more often than not improved upon. He’s built a model ship in a bottle in about thirty minutes with that tactic.

The researchers have learned from experience to list out the exact protocols for each test, lest ‘zoning Izuru’ accidentally creates an atom bomb when ordered to create a carousel like some fucked up genie. 

He’d like to state once again for the record, the malfunction from the last test was not his fault.

Even so, it’s slightly worrying. If not for the researchers, than for Izuru himself. What if he needs a talent in a field situation? He cannot afford to heal someone’s cancer with the original intent of just stopping a flesh wound. 

Izuru mainly wants to blame it on the muscle memory aspect of the learning process. He figures it’s the same deal as being able to tie your shoes every day, but being unable to list out the exact step-by-step process once you think about it hard enough. 

_ It’s kind of like a video game _ , he thinks.  _ In a way. _

It really isn’t. He isn’t sure where he got the idea. 

_o0o_

He comes back to a girl. 

It isn’t an actual girl, of course. He can’t think of a single situation where they would willingly bring a girl into his room, and he’s not really sure how he would react if put in said situation.

No, this girl is painted on the previously blank canvas. The setting of what the Ultimate photographer in him recognizes as Golden Hour showers her in an orange hue, toning the image in beautiful browns and earthy colors. Her face almost looks dazed, glancing at the viewer with blank eyes and a straight face. She’s wearing a uniform of some kind, the collar of her shirt peeking up over an unidentified blazer. Her hair is light, shoulder length.

She’s nearly in profile, Izuru distantly notices. There’s a fountain in the background.

“Are you done?” 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the researcher speaks, head whipping to face her. She’s scribbling something onto her clipboard. Izuru swallows, turning back to the painting. “Y-yeah.”

She writes something down out of the corner of his eye. “A painting like that would usually take about three months to complete, I think. You completed it in three hours.” She says this pointedly, like he should be proud.

_ Like you should be thanking them for the skill. _ He can’t stop looking at the painting. “Can–” He pauses, throat suddenly tight. “Can I keep this?”

The teacher’s smile takes on a pitying facade. “Unless you can make an exact replica in a short amount of time– no, don’t actually!” Izuru didn’t even realize he was reaching for the brushes. He moves his hand back, and she sighs. “We’re going to take it for inspection and an official artist critique. I can see about getting it back afterwards for good behavior, yes?” 

“Right. Okay.” He shakes off the lingering discomfort, unsettling his ponytail. 

“It’s interesting,” The teacher adds, almost noncommittally but so blatantly suspicious. Izuru tenses. “Your subject. She’s very beautiful.”

“I don’t know who she is,” he offers. 

“She’s probably a figment of your imagination,” She continues, as if he didn’t speak. “Look, she even has a little spaceship hairpin. Dream genius girl, Izuru? Someone smart, just like you?”

_ She’s going above her station, _ he observes, frustration welling inside his gut.  _ It’s something they’re concerned about, no doubt. Girls being a distraction to the Ultimate Hope.  _ “If you don’t leave right now, I will smash this painting in half.”

She’s quick to leave, at that. Izuru doesn’t need a talent to destroy things, after all.

_o0o_

He’s chastised later for threatening a teacher. He fires back that she shouldn’t have spoken out of line. They tell him that he should grow accustomed to teasing, if he wants to be treated as an equal rather than an all-powerful test subject.

It’s an argument void of all logic, so he doesn’t respond. 

They need to decide whether he is a human or not. Gods know he’s not sure what side of the line he falls on.

  
  



	2. Ultimate Neurologist

Izuru has way too much time after the test to think about the girl he painted. 

Ultimate tests tend to be the One Big Event scheduled for the day, because apparently an activity lasting 3 hours (usually less) is enough mental stimuli for a kid who’s mind goes a mile a fucking minute. He’d tell his teachers that he’s bored for the rest of the eleven hours he’s awake, but he knows no one will take it well.

So he spends his time thinking, pacing his room, mentally going through talents until he’s dizzy. It’s not exactly a fun pastime, but there’s really nothing else to do to keep the constant buzzing in his head occupied. 

As of late, though...

He can recall every aspect of the painting in his head – the exact hues he used to depict the time of day and direction of the sun, the slightly apathetic expression on his subject’s face, the length and distinct lighter tone of her hair despite the actual pigment being lost to the orange lighting, the  _ school uniform _ .

The hairpin was in the shape of a Gala Omega starship from the 1981 arcade game of the same name, despite the scientific associations yesterday’s researcher had suggested. That in itself lead to a multitude of outcomes towards the girl’s perceived personality, whether she was wearing it out of an appreciation for the aesthetic or a genuine love of the game, although he would assume the former. What does he know? He’s never interacted with anyone his age since he woke up.

Logically, there’s a colossal chance that the girl doesn’t exist. Pondering over a non-existent chick’s personality would be silly, and using every single clue Izuru has at his disposal to find out more about her is just weird.

The girl sticks in his head though, through the rest of the day’s routine of sitting around doing nothing and the next day’s morning routine and subsequent test. He actually zones out easier when designing a workable prototype for a fully functional and self sufficient space station, almost as if his head wants to get lost thinking about this stranger.

This is not a good thing.

All of his time is spent either waiting around or doing perfectly logical actions to stay alive. His routine is scheduled to the second, his motions perfect. There’s no time for expression outside his little miniature revolutions he  _ knows _ he doesn’t have the bravery to carry through. And suddenly when he’s allowed to do an activity directly associated with emotion? The girl shows up. And never. Leaves. His. Head.

It would be fine in any other situation, a teenager obsessing over someone their age. It’s natural, right?

But… this is a distraction. He’s not supposed to have distractions. He’s already on thin ice for having emotions in the first place – he doesn’t need any talents to know how his teachers would react if the information he was freaking out over some potential “love interest” got out.

So he doesn’t scream into his pillow or flip his shit in any capacity. He just sits on the bed or paces, schooling his face into apathy he hopes passes for boredom. Like he’s not thinking of why his subconscious painted such a vivid and specific image. Like he’s not thinking that maybe the fountain  _ does _ exist.

_ The school uniform. _

Hm.

_o0o_

Back when he first woke up, Izuru had the intense urge to  _ help _ .

It’s a remnant from his previous consciousness, he knows. Something so fully ingrained in his personality that it stuck through the botched surgery. What he doesn’t understand is the emotions associated with the urge. Usually, one would help out of pity or passion. 

He wants to help to feel  _ wanted _ . 

He has to stop himself from volunteering information and suggestions on how to improve their security, knowing that the teachers won’t change their behavior just because he helps them. He’s not there to be their friend. He’s there to be a tool. He won’t get what he wants in return.

He knows he is touch starved. The only physical contact he has had with any humans since his ‘birth’ had been accidental brushes of hands as he turns in the day’s test. He has no safe emotional outlet, psychological tests turning into dangerous games of keep-away and deflection that even he has a hard time navigating. He’s alone.

“Kamukura.”

He sighs and drops the strand of hair he was braiding. “Sorry.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” the teacher says, clicking his pen. “The least you could do is pay attention, and you’re not even doing that. It’s the  _ bare minimum _ .”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” Izuru says, wincing as he realizes how stupid that sounds. The teacher doesn’t pick up on it, though. He just clicks his pen again.

“Well, whatever it is, it isn’t important.” The pen clicks again. “Answer the question.”

_ I could throw him across the room _ , a small part of him whispers.  _ I could throw him and I’d be left alone. _

_ I don’t want to be alone, though. _

And that’s the pitiful thing, isn’t it? Any company is just that: company. He’d take these banal questions over isolation any day. Maybe. The pen clicks again.

“Kamukura–”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?” He leans forward in his seat. “Because I don’t hear you answering the question.”

The girl was a turning point in his mind. Before he could just deal with being absolutely alone, but now…

“Good,” the teacher says, scribbling something down on his clipboard. Izuru didn’t even realize he had spoken. “Next question–”

It’s infuriating, how his world has been turned upside down by the concept of companionship. He just wants to  _ function _ , not be tethered down by this need to be accepted and loved. It would be easier in the long run if he had no emotions. Maybe it would make him more amicable to the prospect of being used.

“Excellent. Next…”

The teacher’s pen is a retractable one of standard make: a frame, a thruster, a guide pin, an ink cartridge with a ballpoint on the tip, among the other assorted parts. Blue ink, modern. He’s tempted to pluck it out of his hands and take it apart–

“Next.”

Maybe some sick part of him  _ likes _ the attention the teachers give him. He likes feeling wanted, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons. He likes being important, having talent. He likes it because it’s the only form of love he gets, the only reason why he’s not secluded in some facility with even  _ less _ human interaction. He should be  _ grateful– _

“Kamukura–”

_ “What?!” _ He snaps before his brain can catch up with his mouth. It startles the teacher in his seat, making him drop the pen to the ground with a clatter.

They stare at each other for a moment before Izuru breaks eye contact.

“Sorry,” he mutters, not really sounding that apologetic. Whatever, he’s tired. “Again, a lot on my mind.”

_o0o_

He doesn’t have any visitors or tests for the next week after that. It drives him crazy, pacing back and forth. He doesn’t care about keeping his cool anymore. Let them know he’s upset– maybe they’ll actually do something about it.

Yelling at a teacher. What is he, stupid? Out of his mind? He might as well have said  _ Look! Your super important weapon of mass destruction is broken! _

Then again, normal people don’t think like him, do they? Would they connect his outburst to the painting? Was it any different than the other times he’s gotten frustrated and went out of line? 

He kicks the mattress, seeing how it tilts a foot in the air before coming back down. 

Everything is just so…

_ Boring. _

What’s the use of having a talent if you can’t choose when to use it? The buzzing in the back of his head increases, aimless and without a directive. He was made to  _ receive _ orders, not sit around doing jack shit. The researchers need to take responsibility.

He kicks the mattress again, noting how it tilts  _ exactly _ a foot in the air before it returns.

Everything is going too fast and too slow at once, overthinking melding with no action. He’s all nervous energy. He needs to  _ do _ something. He needs to– 

“ _ Kamukura Izuru. _ ” 

The loudspeaker buzzes to life and he jumps a foot in the air. “Holy– Yes? What?” He knows he sounds too eager, but sue him. It’s been a week

“ _ After you eat, you have a visitor. _ ”

_o0o_

Needless to say, it is the fastest he’s eaten his bland oatmeal in his entire existence. 

His leg bounces as he sits in a metal chair, waiting for the door to open like a puppy waiting for his owner. He doesn’t appreciate the comparison his mind spouts in its never ending stream of thought, but he can shamefully admit that it’s accurate. 

Especially when  _ Matsuda Yasuke _ walks in.

“Well,  _ someone _ fucked up,” the neurologist says with no preliminary greeting. Izuru scowls.

“I get enough shit from my thought process every second. Can we skip the criticism?” It is nice to finally have confirmation that his actions were the reason for the lack of tests, though. Matsuda sneers. 

“Apparently whatever your internal monologue is telling you isn’t quite sticking, so no. We won’t skip anything.”

Izuru met Matsuda his second day of existence, after they realized the surgery was a failure. From what he could gleam, Izuru assumes someone offered either credits, money, or a guaranteed graduation in return for his Ultimate Neurologist input on the situation. Whether or not he took the whole “human experimentation” thing well at first is up to interpretation, but he certainly seems okay with it now. Izuru chalks it up to the presence of his questionable girlfriend.

“How’s Enoshima?”

“A bitch, but we aren’t talking about her today.” He taps his clipboard and sits down in the seat opposite to Izuru. “Today, we’re talking about the other freak of nature.”

“You’re such a bastard,” Izuru offers wholeheartedly. 

“Shut up and zone out for a second, Ultimate Hope. I need to have some expert opinions on different styles of boats over the years.”

For just a moment, Izuru contemplates the option of  _ not _ zoning out and giving his interrogator bullshit answers. There is no outcome where he gets out unscathed, his killjoy brain helpfully reminds him, but it’s a nice thought.

“You’re daydreaming about murdering me, aren’t you.”

“Nothing that extreme,” he assures, but now that he brought it up… “Did you know there are approximately three-hundred seventy six ways I could–”

“Oh my god. Shut up. Just shut up.”

Izuru smiles, looking at the Ultimate sitting across from him. He genuinely likes Matsuda, if only because he’s the only one he can interact so brazenly with. He’s also technically his age! It’s almost as if Izuru had a friend, if Matsuda wasn’t… “So, what do you have for me?”

He pulls a sheet of paper out from his clipboard. “If you promise to not make a shiv out of this, I’ll give it to you.”

Izuru takes the paper after a nod, and skims the page. It’s his previous diagnostic test results from the last times Matsuda visited, all neat and tidy on a page with comparisons between the weeks.

“Now, I’m going to take the wild but educated guess that your results would not have changed in the last few weeks because, despite your status as a failed experiment, your body is still fucking perfect– no. Don’t say anything. You know what I meant.” When he’s sure Izuru will stay silent, he continues. “So that means any issues you have are brain related. Which means cracking your skull open again, except they’d have me on the team this time.”

Izuru freezes. Matsuda looks at him.

Surface level, Matsuda is implying that they’d be removing his emotions. Izuru suspected this. It isn’t a surprise. It would probably be successful with Matsuda on the case as well. Having a perfect Ultimate Hope as the outcome would be the best for everyone involved. 

Under the surface, however…

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” he says, face apathetic. “We’re a little behind schedule, apparently. None of the talent tests taken now will be viable once it’s successful.”

If he gets on that operating table with Matsuda at the helm, he’s not sure that whatever comes  _ off _ the table will be extremely  _ hopeful _ . 

“When’s the operation?” Izuru asks.

“Three weeks.” He says with a glint in his eye. “Preparation time, you understand. They originally didn’t want to inform you ahead of time, but with the way you were losing your shit before I walked in, you would have smashed some walls in before tomorrow.”

It’s really a good thing the first thing Ultimate Analyst picked up when they first met was the fact that Matsuda did no charity. No kindness in his heart at all. Otherwise, Izuru wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Matsuda is going to turn him into a monster in three weeks, and Izuru needs to get out of there before then.

  
  



End file.
